Fair Game
by K. Kiyoui
Summary: [AU] "Why?" I asked choking on tears that suddenly overcame me. This game was agonizing. I couldn't keep playing. I couldn't. "Because you need me to love the boy from two?" I hissed out. To be speaking of love I held great malice. "This is so much bigger than that." Meave insisted, because all was fair in love and war. If only my life wasn't so entangled in both.


**AN:**

Welcome!

I do not own Hunger Games, this story is for my own enjoyment.

This story will not follow patterns of other fictions you have seen out there. I wrote this story trying to answer these questions:

What if the rebellion had been more organized?

If Cato was going to have a love interest, what would that character be like? How could that happen and have everything still make sense?

It was a challenge-but I loved it.

I hope you enjoy reading. Be well.

* * *

"You're going to miss." She whispered beside me. It wasn't mocking—it was matter of fact.

I held the axe in my hand with determination. _Screw her._ I could do this. I _had_ to do this. Pulling my arm back I gazed at my target and threw forward purposefully remembering to check my follow through. The axe spun head over handle smoothly. I was still holding my breath, as if the impact was the only way I could let the air go. The axe embedded itself snuggly in my intended target. The sound of collision made a grin tug at my lips and the breath I had been holding left me suddenly, making my lungs burn.

The girl beside me made a quizzical sound of surprise. I quietly chuckled at her predicament—my sister's premonitions couldn't _always_ be right. Where would the fun be then?

"Amateur!" The spectator of our competition shouted at us from her porch across the way. Her snarky comment distracted me from the axe in the tree and made me glance over at her.

She was lounging on her porch steps in a way that suggested that she didn't give a damn about anything—which I suppose she didn't. Ever since Johanna Mason won the Games and her family was sequentially murdered she didn't care much for anything at all—especially me. The fact that my older sister was a surviving victor, with her family very much still alive was all that was needed to put her over the edge. Though I suppose it didn't help that my sister had mentored the competition during Johanna's games.

I tried to ignore her. Riling up Johanna never ended well for anyone. You would think this would mean she spent lots of time alone. It wasn't. She had a way of being loud, condescending, and unforgettable no matter where you went in District 7. She probably just couldn't face her empty house. Even with this sympathetic thought in mind, it didn't stop me from stomping my way over to my axe. The force I used to yank it from the tree was more than necessary.

This caused Johanna to start laughing. Her taunts continued, "You're going to have to do better than that if you're picked—it's not exactly original!"

I involuntarily shivered. _If I'm picked_. "Oh yes—and what did you win with again?" I asked rolling my wrist to feel the satisfying weight of the axe twirl. None of this was wise, but it felt good to focus on the anger instead of the other emotions I knew I couldn't express today. "It couldn't have been an _axe_." I tested. "The same thing as Alon? The same as Yasmin? Blight? Or Maeve?" I knew I should stop, but Reaping Day made me bold. A potential death sentence had a way of doing that to a person.

"At least I came out looking better than Maeve!" Johanna guffawed.

How dare she? That scar was not winning Maeve any friends. Yet, I remembered the moment she got it. The horror I felt. The absolute sureness I had that she had died and counting the agonizing seconds waiting for a canon to boom announcing her death.

Before I could think better of it I had thrown the axe at Johanna. She was fast—of course—all Victors are, and it ended up embedding itself in the stairs. I didn't know if I should feel shocked I had thrown it, relieved I hadn't hit her, or anger I had missed. Cold anger and logic won. What had I been practicing with the axe for if I couldn't even hit a sitting target?

"Why you bitch! You really do have a death sentence don't you?" Johanna was on her feet and marching towards me with a vicious glint in her eyes. It was enough to distract me from my previous train of thought.

Beside me my sister made a soft sound of recognition, "This makes more sense—you didn't miss. I thought your throw would be off. _Of course_ it was intentional." The latter part was said with equal parts amusement and exasperation.

 _Great_. Her premonition was right—sort of. Couldn't she ever just be wrong? "Not really the time, Moira." I teased quietly back to her. Then my eyebrow raised challenging, "Wait you thought I missed the tree by _that much?_ " I asked gesturing towards the porch where the axe still stuck.

Moira made a noncommittal sound that couldn't hide her humor. She gave a quick shrug of her shoulders but then looked back at Johanna who was nearly on us.

Right. A Hunger Games Victor was out for blood—mine. Part of me wondered if I should run, but I didn't. The fact that I held my ground showed just how much the last year had changed me. A year ago I was not violent, I was not filled with this deep seeded anger, or worse—this much fear.

"Johanna! Morrigan! Not today." Came the sharp clipped voice from the house behind us. My eyes drifted up to see Maeve, our older sister, standing in the door way. Her hands were on her hips and she looked at us disapprovingly. "Now Morrigan, Moira—get in here. You need to get ready for the Reaping. Johanna, I suggest you go home and do the same."

"What you think I need to get dolled up like you?" Johanna sneered, clearly dismissive. My fingers twitched for another axe to throw.

I watched Maeve's jaw clench. It gave the scar across her face more prominence. Her one remaining eye was steely. It was enough to give me a flashback of when a blade had been slashed across her face. The seconds ticking by until we all realized, with a dramatic pan out of the camera, that Maeve's axe had just lobbed the head off her last remaining opponent.

"Moira. Morrigan." Maeve repeated clearly trying to restrain herself and pulling me from my flashback.

Moira gently touched my shoulder. It was this action that caused me to exhale, releasing the tension in my body. I turned and walked with Moira back to the house.

Once inside I saw that Maeve's tension was not going to go away. Ever since she had won her Games I had learned that there was a coil inside her. It was always ready to go, rippling under the surface. On rare days it was not wound up—we hadn't seen one of those in over a year. The worst days, like today, she was wound up too tight. We knew she was moments away from losing control. No one had to say anything, but we all knew and Maeve kept the kitchen island between us—as if the barrier could save us from the violence ready to burst from her.

"Girls." Maeve said in exasperation, as if we were daughters and not sisters—though for Maeve perhaps she always saw us this way. "Surely you understand…"

"That I need to murder 23 other people. Yeah. That's why we were outside _practicing_." I said with bitterness. The way I could talk about death frightened me. However, I knew deep down that I could talk all I wanted—it wasn't the same thing as action.

"22." Moira corrected quietly. Her answer held all the forlorn that mine should have, that it used to.

I blanched and used a hand on the counter to steady myself—despite my nonchalance in the previous comment hearing Moiras's words had physically pained me.

"It's…" Maeve hesitated glancing down at my hand on the counter and swallowing, "It's not about killing. Especially not today."

Right. As if I could forget. Today was about acting—every day from here on out was about my performance. Succeed and I could save everyone. Fail and I was going to die and condemn others to my fate. The weight of this burden silenced me and my shoulders sagged.

Moira's gentle nature had her reaching her arm around me. Silently supporting. She didn't say anything, but without looking up I knew that she was glaring at Maeve accusingly. Not that it would bother Maeve—she was much too big picture thinking lately to care what either of us thought.

As if the glare prompted her into action Maeve continued, business as usual, "What are we going for?"

"Elegant, steady, strength." I repeated.

"How are you going to do that?" Maeve challenged.

I sagged into Moira, suddenly too tired to play this game anymore. She held me tall. "Look up, not down, no tears. Move gracefully. I cannot trip. My shoulders will be squared back. Yet on the stage I will look into the crowd before me with passion—not fear or anger. A steady resolve." My voice sounded weary. Perhaps it was from repetition.

I glanced up to see Maeve nodding in approval, "You must show resolve and compassion without it being taken as a weakness."

"What if…" I asked suddenly shy but hopeful. The question was going to sound ludicrous. Yet it didn't stop me from asking, "What if I'm not picked?" Surely I can't volunteer. It would ruin everything.

Moira's arm tightened around me. Maeve's hands clenched the countertop and suddenly I was afraid that the island might not be enough space between us. Her voice dropped into the steady, deadly tone that we heard in her Game's interview—the post Maeve, the one that existed after she was Reaped. The old Maeve never came back. She leaned forward, "I wouldn't have trained you this way if I wasn't absolutely certain."

I nodded resolutely, but I didn't want to believe in Maeve's faith—despite how far it had gotten her.

* * *

"Morrigan?" Moira called softly from the doorway.

I was still standing in front of my mirror, feeling more self-conscious than I ever have before. All of Panem was going to see me. They were going to see a girl in an emerald green dress, because everyone wore something green on Reaping Day in District 7—it was an unspoken rule. So that when camera looked upon the crowd of people they didn't see a sea but a forest. Everyone was going to see long, curly brown hair, and pale blue eyes—the same look as so many others in District 7. This was not the face of change, this was the face of many.

I was going to be judged and ridiculed. This moment was also going to be tied to me forever—and I was supposed to make a statement. Not alone of course…which made it worse. Would he like me? And even worse—did that matter? It shouldn't. But even as I thought it, my heart hurt.

"I can't do this." I whispered. It was quiet, so quiet because I was deathly afraid of Maeve hearing. Despite all my fear and all my misgivings about Maeve's plan I had never actually said I wouldn't or couldn't do it. Not that I had actually been asked.

Moira moved inside the room quickly and shut the door. Even she was afraid of my treasonous words. Before I knew it she was standing beside me. I could see her in the mirror. She was a year younger than me—but often we were mistaken as twins. The only true differences between us were subtle, she was a bit slimmer, taller, and her features were sharp. Meanwhile, I fell just a tad shorter, and remained soft and curvy. I watched in the mirror as her soft and gentle hands held my newly calloused ones as they trembled. Her light blue eyes found my matching ones in the mirror.

"It's okay." Moira whispered. She let one hand go while I clung to the other like a tether on a tree. Her free hand stroked through my long brunette tresses, untangling a few of the wayward curls. "Have this moment." She reassured squeezing my hand back. "Because what Maeve has done…" She trailed off and my breath hitched. Moira never talked about the plan or her opinion on it. Yet for the first time I saw anger. Perhaps Maeve wasn't the only one with a coil inside her. "Maeve has given you to everyone. She has stolen you. She has stolen you from Father. She has stolen you from me. She has stolen you from you. You are going to belong to all of them now."

Them. The capital, the districts, the rebels.

"Anyone would be afraid of what she has asked you to give," Moira said matter-of-factly. "But Morrigan." Moira said with a hint of a smile. "I've seen you." She insisted. "What you can give, what you can do, surely it's going to be worth the price."

The outcome will be worth the expense of me. I let that thought mull around for a minute in my head. I don't know how to feel about it, even after repeating it to myself a few times. However, the uncertainty of it helps make me feel empty instead of panicked. I'm grateful for the change.

"And…" Moira said with a bit of warmth in the dark mood. She looks at me conspiratorially, "You don't have to do it alone."

Right. I'm meant to have him. Together we are meant to do this. It's imperative we are a unit, "I hope he actually likes me." I say before I can think better of it. "I just…I want to really be loved. I don't want it to be fake. Maybe it won't always have to be pretend?" I sound desperate.

Yet I don't want to be truly alone. This is such a big task ahead of me. It is a defining moment. It's going to separate Moira and I—the one person who has always known and understood me. She will never be able to understand this, she will not be able to relate on the same level we once shared. It's terrifying to think that the one person who might understand, could hate me. Could I survive this world alone, while pretending to be in love?

"I'm sure it won't." Moira says tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, distracting me from my train of thought. She doesn't elaborate further. We both know in the end that it won't matter—this is so much bigger than one girl's true love story. Yet it doesn't stop the pang in my chest from spreading.

* * *

I stand poised. My head is held high. This is it. I stand with my peers, the other eighteen year olds. Though I stand near the front of the rope separating us from the seventeen year olds. Moira stands at the back of her section so that she and I can hold hands across the rope.

Around me is a thicker moment of tension than any previous year I've attended the Reapings. It's me—they must feel my tension and anxiety. Maybe they know what is about to happen? They must know that this is it! If everything goes to plan this will be the final Reaping.

It hits me like a physical blow. I realize that for them, this is the last year—with me or without me. This is the last moment before freedom. So long as their name isn't drawn, this one last time, they'll never stand here again. I'm overcome with jealousy.

"Morrigan Burke."

I freeze for just a moment. Maeve was right. It really would be me—there was no chance for a different outcome. My question in the kitchen seems so silly now. The sudden stillness of my hand alerts Moira.

Suddenly she is standing up just a bit taller, hiding me from view. "I—I…" Moira begins.

With horror I realize that she is trying to volunteer. She would do this for me. She would volunteer, ruin everything, condemn everyone—and die, just so I wouldn't have to do this.

I imagine it for a second. Moira finishing her sentence and walking to the stage. I see my own horror stricken face and her tear stained cheeks. She would die—she could not actually take my place for Maeve's plan. Moira could never kill anyone. Ever. I feel a sudden sense of relief, someone does love me enough to save me. It doesn't last long though, it is replaced by a sudden gut wrenching heart leaping fear for her.

I remember Moira's words and my own revelation at them. That this future, the future the rebels believe in, the one they hope I can help bring is worth sacrificing myself. Suddenly this is very true. I will not let this happen to her. I squeeze her hand tightly—it must hurt. Yet I need her to stop talking. Anything else she could say would physically wound me, and I can't have that now. I need all the strength I can get. She turns to face me, there are tears there and the fear in her eyes cannot be hidden. She hiccups once. "No." She denies.

I pull her closer and we rest our foreheads together. This was not scripted. Maeve is going to be furious. I don't say anything. There are no words to give, I have only this moment to hold her. To be me. When I walk up—I belong to them. With a shuddering breath she says clearly, loudly, "Remember the roots."

It's enough to make me pull away. Remember the roots—where I come from, the ancient tree. Remember Maeve, remember Father, remember her—remember _me_. The roots will always be there, even if they are hidden where no one can see.

"Remember the roots." I echo back. I can hear my own forlorn voice. It carries well across the wind. Everyone has heard it—that is how quiet the square has fallen. Remember _me_ I plead to her.

When our hands disconnect I become the girl that Maeve envisioned. I walk with grace, I feel my green dress and hair billowing back behind me. I hear the whistle of the wind in the trees. I take the steps to the stage. I feel Maeve's stare from behind me with the other victors. I look across the crowd, I can do this—I can do this to save them. I never want to see another Reaping. I don't want these children to ever come back to this square and fear their own name. I smile at them with hope—I'll do this for you, I tell them silently, even if they have no inkling of our plan.

Then our escort pulls the name from the men's bowl and ruins everything.


End file.
